Cowritten by Arthur Albion
February 1813
"Oh, this one is simply marvellous, Crowley. The story, it's quite modern, about . . ."
Aziraphale was gushing about some new book that had just been published. From what Crowley understood, the angel had met and befriended the author, despite that the book had been published anonymously last month. This wasn't surprising, Aziraphale loved getting to know the humans who wrote the stories he cherished. Being friendly also made it easier for him to obtain a personally signed copy.
Crowley couldn't see much point in befriending humans, but it still happened on occasion. He tried to keep his contact limited to assignments. Or when he personally wanted something, which wasn't often.
The angel had been fascinated by writing since writing had been invented. Crowley could recall finding the angel in Sumer learning cuneiform and again a bit later in Egypt learning hieroglyphs from the locals. His delight had never dimmed as the human languages evolved and shifted and split into new dialects and eventually different languages entirely. In fact, Aziraphale had been over the moon in his excitement after the Germans invented the printing press. His favourite thing, now available en mass and without the pesky problem of bad penmanship. Clever humans. Spelling was still coming along. Slowly. They would get there, eventually. Hopefully.
With more books than ever before, Aziraphale had decided to open a bookshop in London as a place to finally keep his collection. Crowley had quickly decided he liked the shop. It was nice to know exactly where Aziraphale would be the majority of the time. He didn't have to worry if the angel had just decided to pop off to Japan or wherever in the world. Usually. Until Aziraphale got peckish, apparently.
There was a lull as Aziraphale fell silent, looking at the demon expectantly. Crowley banished the small smile from his face as he sat up in his seat and cleared his throat. "Right, course. Of course. I'm glad you enjoy it so much. Sounds fascinating, angel."
"Yes," said Aziraphale. He could tell when the demon had stopped paying attention and tried to hide his annoyance. "So, you'll do it then?"
"Uh," Crowley said elegantly. "I, sure. Yeah. Whatever you want."
"Splendid! I am positive you'll just adore it. I shall lend to you a copy so long as you can take care of it. Return it whenever you are ready. My shop doors are always open to you."
"Right." Crowley was doing his best to work out what it was Aziraphale wanted him to do without actually asking outright. He had gotten away with his lapse in attention, no reason to admit to it now. It was actually very rare for him to be so wrapped up in his own thoughts when Aziraphale was around. Luckily, it seemed the angel just wanted him to read this new book. This was, technically a simple request, and not one Crowley could easily back out of now.
Sitting in his flat holding a copy of Pride & Prejudice, Volume the First, Crowley glared at the cover. The second and third volumes were on the table in front of him. He had often been told by Aziraphale that he should read some book or another in their infrequent moments where they were able to simply sit and converse, but this was the first time Aziraphale had been so determined. Going even as far as lending the demon his precious copy of the book was nothing to take lightly.
The problem, however, was Crowley's eyes. He had a difficult time reading. It wasn't the language, English was actually rather simple as far as linguistic shifts they had adapted to over the centuries. It was the physical work itself. Handwritten and printed both, they were too stationary for him to easily focus on the wiggly lines of script. The letters of humans all looked too similar and too different simultaneously. This fault was not something he would ever admit to aloud. He could read and write, of course, but he avoided it like a plague. More than he'd avoided plagues, actually. Pestilence was no threat to him, even if they were remarkably vexatious.
With a sigh, he opened the cover to the unblemished title page, flipped through the unmarked pages before he settled in to struggle through what had better be a very damn good book. Crowley enjoyed stories, but he found the greatest enjoyment in the oral tradition. Sitting around letting someone tell him a story, or read it to him, was preferable. The demon had highly favoured the Ancient Greeks. Their oral tradition of story and their enduring insistence to encourage learning and spread knowledge were all sentiments with which he could wholeheartedly agree.
April 1813
Two months later, Crowley snapped Volume the Third closed and set it down on the table with its companions. His head throbbed and his eyes stung. He blinked, and they did feel a bit better. Standing with a stretch, he thought about what he had just read. Aziraphale had been right, the story was interesting, though rather homey. Not a bad thing, but it had been difficult to concentrate on the drama of Elizabeth and Darcy, and Jane and Bingley when his thoughts kept drifting to the angel. Bingley reminded him of Aziraphale. The man was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. He was lively and unreserved. He was extremely agreeable and charmed you instantly upon making your acquaintance with his natural manners then further endeared himself to everyone with the mildness of his temper.
Crowley had to agree the same could be said for Bingley. Crowley's own disposition was of such extreme contrast. It had crossed his mind at one point to wonder at the stark contrast between Bingley and Darcy yet their friendship was so strong. Baffling.
The demon decided to wait a few days before going to see Aziraphale and return the volumes. He knew the angel would be anxious about their absence, but Crowley couldn't read any faster. He had tried. Crowley wanted a nap, and he should probably do something evil. Soon. Sure, he had been slothful, but that excuse only went so far in Hell. Sinning might be encouraged, but he still had work to do.
Quite a lot of work to do, actually. Crowley hadn't noticed the assignments piling up as he had been absorbed in the book. Glancing from the haphazard stack of grubby papers to the three pristine hardbacks, he sighed. Ignoring the paperwork, he changed his clothes as he walked into the bedroom for a quick kip.
Fighting the urge to sleep for a month, Crowley roused himself after only a couple of days. He glared at the work still sitting on his desk, suspecting a few more pages had shown up whilst he slept. Typical Hastur. With a click of his fingers, he began to sort through the work with gloved hands. Paper from Hell was always so dirty, usually just a bit of soot, but sometimes a bit sticky if you were very unlucky. Not to mention the thin residue of slime that seemed to be omnipresent. He needed to find a new way for Hell to communicate assignments.
It seemed like less work when Crowley had stacked all the small assignments off to the side and focused on the longer page detailing some strike in Durham and how Hell wanted him to interfere. The small stuff could wait and there were a number of things he could combine with a bit of imagination to finish sooner. Throwing the gloves down onto the table, he gathered the books up as he left the flat.
The bookshop sign said Closed, but that had never stopped Crowley from walking right in and he did so now.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale smiled to himself at the unmistakable sound of Crowley's voice coming from the front of the shop. He had been expecting the demon and conveniently hadn't bothered to open the shop. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, Crowley might be persuaded to a drink.
"Crowley, do come in," raising his voice slightly to ensure he was heard, the angel bookmarked his place.
Crowley crossed the shop and found Aziraphale exactly where he expected. Sitting in his usual chair, book in hand. He swallowed the smile threatening his face. Instead, he held up the three books to cover his slight pause. "Just returning these."
"Yes, thank you." Standing up, he accepted the books with a smile. They looked well cared for in their absence, and he was silently very grateful to the demon. "Would you like something to drink?"
"I wish I could, but duty demands my presence in the North. Something about coal in Durham."
"Oh. Yes, of course." Years of practice kept Aziraphale from sounding or looking crestfallen at the rejection. He nodded in understanding.
"Uh, yeah. Shouldn't be too long. I'll take you up on that drink when I return?"
"Yes," Aziraphale smiled warmly in reply, knowing that thanking the demon twice in one conversation was pushing it. "Mind how you go, dear."